


The Lathe of Love

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Courtship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family History, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft is a time shifter, Past Abuse, Sherlock is a reality shifter, The Lathe of Heaven AU, mention of Eurus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: John Watson has always enjoyed his life as Sherlock Holmes' flatmate and blogger, but he is about to learn something about himself and his friend that could tear their world apart.





	The Lathe of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the Ursula LeGuin universe set out in 'The Lathe of Heaven' and has adapted certain aspects of that book into this universe. I have no legal rights to this book and would not even dream of pretending so. It's just such a great idea that I had to run with it. I hope you enjoy the show!

Mycroft looked up suddenly, and, with great concern, said, “He’s doing it again.”

 

The room rippled around him.

 

The letters on the front page of morning paper he had just been reading shifted and flowed into new combinations. Now they read, “Thieves Rob Royal Bank With Masterful Plan. Scotland Yard Baffled.”

 

He harrumphed to himself. Just a moment ago, the headline had read, “Westminster Flower Show Best in Decades.”

 

_What am I to do with you, brother of mine?_

 

>>> ***<<<

 

“John!” Sherlock crowed as he tossed the paper to one side and stood up energetically. John knew the signs; Sherlock was about to have a case dropped in his lap.

 

“What now?” he asked, blandly, knowing how Sherlock loved to present things in the most dramatic way possible.

 

“Lestrade should be showing up any minute now with a case,” Sherlock crowed gleefully, rubbing his slender musician’s hands together. His eyes glittered with excitement.  


John shrugged, then said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s it about, all-knowing oracle?”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped backward in surprise. “About? John, I really do wonder about you some days.” He picked up the paper and waved it in the air emphatically. “The robberies, of course! ‘Scotland Yard Baffled’. You know that means Lestrade will be coming around.”

 

A door banged shut downstairs and a pair of shoes mounted the stairs, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s “Oh, boys! Company coming!”

 

Sherlock turned to John and beamed. John smirked in return. He loved to see Sherlock like this—bright of affect, energetic, ready to pounce. If only he could keep him in this condition all the time. It would be so much better than his fits of melancholy or his temper tirades or his manic violin-playing.  He’d do almost anything to make this man happy, maybe even…

 

He shook his head to dislodge the thought. Too dangerous. He’s dealing with a high-functioning psychopath with an inability to experience love or compassion. All he had was the thrill of the chase, the exercise of his intellectual prowess, the triumph of logic and reason. He had no heart to speak of, and especially no room in it for one John Watson.

 

“Oi!” Lestrade greeted them as he stomped through the doorway. “Been reading the papers, have you?” he asked, nodding at the crumpled daily in Sherlock’s hand. “So you must be up on the latest, eh?”

 

“Ready and willing to assist, Lestrade,” Sherlock asserted. “Are there any issues your boys may have missed? Like the use of clown masks from a particular store two blocks away from this bank? Or the old football injury suffered by the stockiest of the group which has caused an obvious limp in his left leg? Or…”

 

Lestrade swore. “How in hell did you figure that out? We held those facts back from the reporters for our own use!” He scratched the back of his head in puzzlement.

 

Sherlock smiled smugly. “I knew that because I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John rolled his eyes out loud. Sherlock shot him a venomous look. Lestrade covered his smile with one hand.

 

“So, I take it we’re not taking in the Flower Show today, yeah?” John quipped as he crossed the room to take his jacket down from the coat rack.

 

“Flower Show? Are you mad, John? The Flower Show isn’t until next week!” Sherlock growled.

 

John froze. He’d been sure they had made plans to go to the Flower Show today to check out a new type of flower that is supposed to provide a richer source of sustenance for honey bees, which was one of Sherlock’s favorite interests. No, he was certain of that…the Flower Show was today.

 

He crossed the room and grabbed the daily out of Sherlock’s unresisting grip. He only spared a moment to take in Sherlock’s mildly alarmed expression as he pored over the front page headlines.

 

Nope, nothing there about the Flower Show. The front page was full of news about the robbery—sans the details Sherlock had dredged up for Lestrade. John’s jaw dropped. He felt Sherlock’s hand on his elbow and heard a soft, “John? What seems to be the matter?”

 

Odd that Sherlock’s voice sounded less inquiring and more…worried.

 

John shook his head as if to clear it. He dropped the paper on his chair. “Nothing, Sherlock. Just…misremembered the dates, is all.” The hand dropped away and patted him lightly on the shoulder.

 

John favored Sherlock with a slightly sickly smile and his flatmate’s brow creased. There was something going on behind those eyes that Sherlock wasn’t sharing.

 

“Well, are you two coming with, or do I have to stand here watching the two of you stare at each other?” Lestrade growled. His voice broke the spell.

 

“Coming, Lestrade!” Sherlock caroled out, pushing John ahead of him as he grabbed is greatcoat from the rack.

 

John sniffed. He didn’t like to feel like Sherlock was keeping him in the dark, but he knew he’d get no answers until it served Sherlock’s purpose, and now was not that time.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Sherlock was in his glory. Black coat swirling, he examined every inch of the bank’s lobby and vault, waving off Lestrade when he tried to point something out with a brusque, “Yes, I can see that, Inspector.” John took copious notes, as usual, while Sherlock muttered to himself and occasionally pointed something out to John as being of exceptional interest. Interspersed with those observations were other mutterings about how John would turn this into a “bank job thriller” rather than a study in his deductive methods.

 

John smirked. It was _his_ blog, after all. Sherlock could write whatever scientific or investigative piece he wished on his own blog, which was seldom read (except by Lestrade, occasionally—he had admitted that to John one day). It was John’s rendition that had garnered attention and obtained for Sherlock the best and most interesting cases. Simply put, it paid the bills, so Sherlock could just go bugger himself if he didn’t like it.

 

He chuckled to himself as he jotted down a few details. So engrossed was he that, at first, he didn’t notice the sudden silence in the room. When he looked up, he was astounded at the scene around him. Sherlock stood, in mid-coat-swirl, in the center of the lobby. All the Yarders were frozen in place, with Lestrade’s mouth open in an uncompleted word. There was no sound whatsoever. No movement. Only he was animate.

 

Before he could utter the word “Sherlock,” a young woman with dark hair that he recognized stood beside him, iphone in hand.

 

“Anthea,” he gulped in surprise. She hadn’t been there a second before.

 

“Dr. Watson,” she responded, cordially, but with a definite icicle hanging from the name. “Your presence has been requested.” She turned smoothly and, without looking up, led the way to the ubiquitous waiting black car.

 

“Yeah, and I can guess who wants me,” he quipped before following the slender young woman, meanwhile sparing a sharp glance at the immobile Sherlock in concern.

 

“He’ll be fine, Dr. Watson,” he heard her call back. “They all will be. This way please. Time is of the essence,” she said with an uncharacteristic giggle.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Mycroft,” John stated flatly. He was never particularly thrilled to see Sherlock’s older brother. It usually meant political trouble or, at the very least, a family squabble.

 

Mycroft sat in a plushly-padded leather chair with hobnail trims. He smiled rather like a dead carp, in John’s estimation. He was always impeccably dressed whenever he visited the Diogenes Club, where they were presently meeting.

 

John didn’t much care for the formalities and fripperies. There was something strange going on and it involved Sherlock. That was all that was important. _Sherlock_ was important.

 

“Do sit down, Doctor,” Mycroft cooed, gesturing with one hand at the comfortable, but certainly not plush, chair opposite him.  John nodded and sat, crossing his knees and arms in a closed manner. He didn’t trust Mycroft. He frankly didn’t think anyone did.

 

“I see you are already the skeptic, Dr. Watson. This will not serve you well here. What I have to tell you will test your confidence in what you know to the limit. Are you ready for that?” Mycroft asked, one well-sculpted eyebrow raised in query.

 

John barely grunted in assent. He’d already seen what his flatmate was capable of. He deemed that near-miraculous. So what could Mycroft offer him that would make that seem commonplace?

 

Mycroft smiled as if he could read John’s mind.

 

“Sherlock is a reality-shifter,” he said, as if that was an everyday occurrence.

 

John just sat there, brain caught in mid-thought. Mycroft’s smile widened.

 

“And I am a time-shifter,” he added, somewhat smugly.

 

John goggled. Mycroft chuckled. “Didn’t think you were ready for the truth, to be honest, but there it is.”

 

_Reality-shifter. What the hell is a reality-shifter? What the bloody hell is a time-shifter? Does Sherlock know he can do this? What, exactly, can he do? Can the two of them affect the world as a whole, or just select parts of it? What happens to the people involved with these changes? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?_

 

To his credit, Mycroft waited patiently as he watched a myriad of micro-expressions dance across John’s mobile, expressive face; he was processing. Mycroft smiled behind steepled fingers, a trait he shared with Sherlock. Good; this might go down more easily than anticipated. John was no Sherlock, but neither was he a complete imbecile. More than your typical goldfish.

 

John raised a hand and pointed it toward Mycroft in emphasis.

 

“If this is a bloody joke, Mycroft, I swear to God…”

 

“No joke, Doctor. This is real; well, as real as reality can be when you deal with someone who can change the world on a whim. Fortunately, that is not Sherlock. He is too controlled for that, but he does…yearn for things that are problematic for him. Therein lies the problem.”

 

John snorted in derision. “That’s the _only_ problem? When reality is being pulled out from under us every day like a bed magic trick?” John made to get up. “This is gobshite…”

 

“SIT DOWN, DOCTOR WATSON!” Mycroft ordered in a thundering voice John had not thought him capable of. “You will sit there and you will listen or the world may pay a price that will be on your head.”

_Hmmm. Interesting. And very personal_. John sat.

 

Mycroft nodded approval. “Good. Now, Doctor, please try to expand that tiny box you refer to as a mind and imagine this; There are people in the world who can manipulate reality in its various forms. I can manipulate time, therefore I am of great interest to the government and my abilities have been useful in maintaining the peaceful functioning of the empire and its affiliates.”

 

John nodded. “So, you can stop and restart time at will. Saw that at the bank.”

 

“Good observation, Doctor.”

 

“And you can include or exempt some people, or, perhaps, areas, from this effect?”

 

Mycroft nodded and clapped his hands in approval. “Bravo, Doctor. Sherlock has had a great effect on you. Yes, I can consciously control the movement of time and persons or activities within that sphere. However, I am restricted to the reality I am in. I cannot…change it, only influence it.”

 

_Change. Influence. Shifting time. Shifting reality…_

 

“Sherlock can, literally, change the world,” Mycroft drawled, his eyes fastened on John’s face as he watched the color drain from it.

 

“Fuck” was all John was able to eke out as the enormity of this revelation smacked him in the head and rattled his brain. “No. No, no, no, no…”

 

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” Mycroft parroted back. “Sherlock has been able to change reality ever since he was a child, just as I could manipulate time. My sister…” Mycroft suddenly stopped, his hand unconsciously leaping to his mouth as if to stop the words.

 

John leapt on this. “Wait… _sister_? Sherlock has a _sister_? He never told me…”

 

“No, he didn’t,” Mycroft admitted, “because the memory of her was so painful that he wrote her out of his life…literally.”

 

“Where is she now?”

 

Mycroft sighed with a heavy heart. “Locked away in a facility for the criminally insane. You see, my sister, Eurus, was a true sociopath. She also had the gift of being able to manipulate thought. She could “talk” people into doing horrendous things, even killing themselves or their loved ones. She had no concept of compassion or empathy. Pain and pleasure were the same to her. She actually…tortured Sherlock one night. She thought he was laughing but he was actually screaming. After that, he avoided her like the plague. We all did.”

 

Shaking his head in disbelief, John asked, “Didn’t your parents do something about this?”

 

“No,” Mycroft replied, mournfully. “They were so wracked with guilt when they found out that Eurus had been responsible for the death of Sherlock’s best friend that they locked her into her room at Musgrave Manor to others safe from her. The result was that she escaped and burned down the house in revenge. Sherlock was so traumatized that he changed reality that very night, imprisoning his own sister in an unassailable fortress away from the rest of the world.”

 

“Problem solved,” John quipped.

 

Mycroft cast a poisonous look at John. “Not quite, Doctor. You see, Sherlock feared that he might become like Eurus, so he shut himself away from others, developing the personality you currently see. He was not like that before. Sherlock was a happy child until Eurus’ mental instability manifested itself. Afterwards, he became sullen and moody, only interested in developing his mind, his logic, his reasoning abilities as a way to protect his heart.” Mycroft leaned forward, conspiratorially. “You see, Doctor, despite her mental illness, Sherlock loved Eurus. They were close in age and shared certain interests. Eurus even taught Sherlock the violin, as she had been a prodigy. I was more of a parent figure to them both.” He leaned back again.

 

John considered. So much input, Sherlock would say, would take time to sort out. However, certain issues needed to be dealt with immediately.

 

“So, why is this suddenly a problem? Has Sherlock changed reality again in some noxious way?”

 

The look on Mycroft’s face was…unreadable, and yet it said everything. Mycroft was seriously worried about his baby brother.

 

“Noxious, no. Dangerous, very much so.”

 

This piqued John’s curiosity. “How? And more importantly, why?”

 

Mycroft’s not-quite-slender body shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He steepled his fingers at his chin and commenced speaking.

 

“Sherlock has met someone. Someone who fascinates him, motivates him, makes him want…more than he has previously had. He is confused, yet he is certain, and this is causing him to change reality in order to lure that person in, to fascinate, to enrapture…to make that person…love him.”

 

John’s heart sank down into his pants. _Someone_. Sherlock has found someone. Sherlock _wants_ someone. The cold-hearted, high-functioning sociopath is in love.

 

_FUCKING HELL!_

 

John hadn’t realized he’d said that until he saw the look on Mycroft’s face. The pursed lips, the raised eyebrows, the appraising eyes…

 

“So, who is it?”

 

Mycroft lazily waved his hand dismissively. “Not important. More important…”

 

“The hell it is. If Sherlock has found someone, it affects me a great deal,” John snapped.

 

Mycroft smirked and stroked his chin with his fingers. “Patience, John. All will be revealed.”

 

John set his jaw and said nothing. Only the thinly-disguised tension in his body demonstrated his inner turmoil.

 

Mycroft continued, “This person Sherlock has set his sights on is something of a danger addict, you see, and so is Sherlock, to be honest. That was one reason he flirted with drugs. The other, of course, was Eurus. Sherlock thought that the relief from his personal pain through drugs was preferable to his current reality. He hated what he had to do to Eurus because of our parents’ inaction and refused to use his abilities anymore, even to help the Crown. That is one place where he and I differed. Sherlock felt his abilities were far too dangerous to be used “casually”, so he drugged himself into indifference.”

 

“Once I was able to get him into rehab and set him up with a steady supply of interesting criminal cases to keep him occupied (courtesy of Inspector Lestrade, of course), he seemed to be recovering. Yet, there was always a chance he would relapse. I kept an eye on him constantly, but it wasn’t just the drugs I was worried about. Sherlock could change reality through his dreams, which is why he drugged himself—to upset the dream cycle that would effect the changes.”

 

“Shit,” John whispered. “No wonder he hates to sleep.”

 

“Exactly,” Mycroft nodded. “Anything to escape sleep--cases, drugs, playing the violin at all hours---he would try. Mostly, the reality changes would be small, the stuff of dreams. Only I could detect them.”

 

“Why you?” John asked, feeling an inexplicable wave of…jealousy? _Why would I feel that?_

 

“I’m not entirely certain. Perhaps it’s because I was always the fixed point in his life, the sanctuary in a storm, because I understood his abilities and tried to help him manage them. I taught him that his feelings, combined with his abilities, could create more havoc than they could resolve.”

 

“’Caring is not an advantage’, right?” John mocked.

 

Mycroft leaned forward again, but, this time, there was lightning in his eyes, ready to strike. “Do not mock me, Doctor. I did the best I could with someone who could, possibly, be an even bigger menace than his sister had been. If Sherlock hadn’t learned to control himself, he could have created wars and anarchy which reflected his own roiling emotions. Don’t you _dare_ question my motives. I love my brother and I would not see him harmed for the world.” He leaned back, his face stone but his eyes still lit with anger.

 

John nodded, surprised at the vehemence of Mycroft’s outburst. No, he didn’t doubt Mycroft’s intentions, only the appropriateness of his actions when it came to his brother’s well-being.

 

After brushing a bit of lint off the shoulder of his expensive and well-tailored suit, Mycroft stated, “As you can see, my brother is a bit of a sore spot with me. I have never been highly emotional, and yet Sherlock was a veritable fountain of feelings as a child. Eurus’ actions and illness affected him greatly. It is a testament to his gift that no one ever questioned the sudden appearance of an island off the Scottish coast named Sherrinford or a prison housing the criminal insane on said island. It was as if it had always been there. My brother’s logical mind made this a palatable reality for all.”

 

The Flower Show. The bank robbery. They had only been a single change, yet an important one. How many others had there been that had gone unnoticed? And why had _he_ noticed it this time?

 

“The Flower Show that turned into a bank robbery,” John mused out loud.

 

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised. “Ah! Enlightenment has arrived! Good for you, Doctor.”

 

John shook his head again, then held it in his hands. “This is…insane.”

 

Mycroft also shook his head. “No, Doctor, it is…reality. And it has shifted. And, I suspect, it will shift again very soon. Keep our conversation in mind, Doctor. You will need to refer back to it.”

 

“Why…?” John responded.

 

“’Why’ what, John?” Sherlock asked, shaking John’s shoulder slightly. “Are you all right?”

 

John whipped his head around in a 180o arc, searching for Mycroft. Instead, he saw the bank lobby, Lestrade talking to the Yarders, and a very confused Sherlock peering at him closely.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine…I think,” he responded. “What happened?”

 

Sherlock cocked his head and said, “You appeared to…haze out for a moment. Very disconcerting. Perhaps you need food.”

 

John put a hand to his forehead, feigning fatigue. “Yeah, yeah, maybe that’s it.” He swayed on his feet slightly and Sherlock caught him before he could fall.

 

“Come on, John,” he said, solicitously, “It’s time for some food for you. I can’t have my blogger passing out at a crime scene.” He smiled genuinely down at John, and John couldn’t help but smile back.

 

_God, Sherlock is so…he’s not what I thought he was. He’s not cold, he’s not unfeeling. Maybe Mycroft is right. Maybe…_

 

The thought seemed to fade away like a ripple as Sherlock led him out of the building.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Another robbery? What the hell, Sherlock?”

 

John read the headline in disbelief. They’d never had a crime wave like this in London before. The brazenness of the theft was staggering, almost like someone had been planning them for months.

 

“A mastermind, John. There must be someone behind them. They are too well-organized, too informed about their targets to be random efforts,” Sherlock reasoned, gleefully. He was practically dancing around the flat, at one point dragging John out of his chair and mock-dancing with him, humming one of John’s favorite waltzes. It made John laugh to see him so happy, which made Sherlock laugh in return.

 

John loved that laugh.

 

He loved that long, lean body that currently held him in its arms.

 

He loved those brilliant quicksilver eyes that sparkled with wit and life.

 

Oh, God, he loved this man…

 

_Sherlock has met someone…_

 

John’s knees collapsed from under him.

 

It was only Sherlock’s unnaturally-fast reflexes that kept him from sinking to the floor.

 

“John! What’s wrong? Are you unwell?” Sherlock rapid-fired questions at him as he helped John to his chair. “This is the second time you’ve done this. You should see a doctor!”

 

John chuckled as he responded, “I am a doctor, Sherlock, and I pronounce myself perfectly fit.”

 

“Not funny, John,” Sherlock admonished. “I can’t allow anything to happen to you.”

 

John crinkled his nose inquiringly. “Why? I can take care of myself, surely…”

 

A door opened and shut downstairs and Mrs. Hudson called up, “Boys, you have a client!”

 

A middle-aged man entered the room, medical bag in hand. “Hello, my name is Dr. Mortimer and I am seeking the services of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I just decided to drop by and…”

 

Sherlock leapt up, hand extended in greeting. “Dr. Mortimer! Perfect timing. My associate, Dr. Watson, has been subject to moments of frailty that I cannot explain and he will not investigate. Please, examine him, and then I will listen to your story.”

 

Dr. Mortimer nodded. “Why, of course. Anything for the great Sherlock Holmes and his esteemed companion, Dr. Watson. Here, Doctor, let’s take a look…”

 

_Shit. He did it. He actually did it. He needed a doctor and he got one. Oh my god…_

 

The implications were staggering.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Better now, John?” Sherlock inquired solicitously. He presented John with a cup of coffee; badly made, but it was the thought that counted. John knew somehow that Sherlock had been too rattled to pay the appropriate attention to what he had been doing.

 

John took a sip and, suppressing his gag reflex, replied, “Yes, good, thank you, Sherlock.” He placed the cup beside him with a mental note to hide all the coffee from Sherlock at the first opportunity. He leaned back against the overstuffed chair and sighed. “Must be getting old, I guess.”

 

“You? Never,” Sherlock smiled as he sat down opposite John in his own low-slung chair. He stared at John with an unreadable expression on his long face, then leaned his head against his elegantly-fingered hand in thought. “Something happened yesterday that caused you to take a turn. It started at the bank.”

 

John shrugged. “Just tired and hungry, that’s all.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I think not. You were fine until…” His eyes widened in sudden realization.

 

“Until what?” John asked, innocently, even though he knew his face would give away any secrets he might try to hide, damn it.

 

“Until nothing,” Sherlock replied sharply. His eyes had a sudden intensity to them that John had never seen before. They almost seemed to change color, like a kaleidoscope. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all. You had a dizzy spell and I took you to dinner. That’s all.”

 

John nodded slowly. “That’s all,” he agreed slowly.

 

“By the way, have you spoken to my brother lately?” Sherlock asked mildly.

 

Puzzled, John replied, “No. Why do you ask? You know he seldom has anything to do with me, and doesn’t enjoy it when he does.”

 

Sherlock relaxed and smiled amiably. “Good. Now, let’s not worry about this anymore. You are in fine condition, as the good doctor said, and we can continue on with solving this case. I’m sure Lestrade will be coming by soon to pick us up.”

 

“Yes,” John nodded, cheerfully. He hadn’t felt this good, this clear-headed in days. Being examined by the doctor was the best thing that could have happened to him, and now he and Sherlock were heading off on an adventure.  “I’d better get my jacket, then.”

 

As John reached for his jacket, a small piece of paper fluttered out of one pocket. He picked it up and read:    _Remember our conversation. M._

 

A cold rush of shock surged up his body as he realized, _It happened. It’s true. He tried to change reality, to erase that meeting somehow._

 

_I’ve got to talk to Mycroft again._

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Why are you here, in real time?” Mycroft inquired imperiously.

 

John plopped down unceremoniously in the chair without waiting for Mycroft’s invitation.

 

“I’m not the one who can manipulate time, remember?” he snarked.

 

Mycroft shrugged. “You could have waited until I arranged a meeting.”

 

“Sherlock knew.”

 

Well-manicured eyebrows rose.

 

“He knew that you had arranged a meeting with me. He knew there was a reason why I was having shock reactions. He back-tracked his reality and detected…something,” John observed.

 

“Hmm,” Mycroft murmured. “Interesting. I was never certain that he could detect my little time manipulations, and, yet, here you are saying that he did. How did that happen?”

 

John related his conversations with Sherlock at the bank, the next day, and the sudden procuring of the doctor, along with Sherlock’s unexpected detection of John’s meeting with Mycroft.

 

Mycroft looked pensive. “Yes, I can see that now. He responded to your reaction to time-shifting in the bank. There is a sense of disorientation and malaise if you are caught in a time distortion. But what made you react in your flat, when he ‘conveniently’ procured a physician?”

 

John’s mouth opened and snapped shut like a fish gasping for air. _Am I really going to tell him I’m in love with his brother when he’s already said Sherlock’s in love with someone else? No. Fucking. Way._

 

“Must have been a delayed reaction, I guess. I’m no expert on this stuff,” he commented, as off-handedly as possible. Still, Mycroft studied his face in minute detail.

 

_Damn these Holmes brothers. Too damned smart for anyone’s good._

“Yes. Well, then, it’s obvious that Sherlock is on to me. Good thing I had Anthea put that note in your pocket. He almost sucked you into that alternate reality completely. God, he’s a sneaky little beggar,” Mycroft complained, yet John could still detect a note of admiration in his voice.

 

“So, what do we have to do?”

 

“Hmmm?” Mycroft lifted his head, almost as if recognizing that John was in the room for the first time.

 

“Why is Sherlock in danger, and what do we have to do to help him?” John  prodded.

 

With a click of his fingers, Mycroft said, “Of course! Back to the mess at hand. Thank you, Doctor. Sometimes Sherlock confounds even me.” He smirked. “Although that is a difficult feat at any time. So, Doctor, I will require your intervention in Sherlock’s life if you are to save it.”

 

John gaped. “Save it? Save it from what?”

 

“From himself.”

 

_What…?_

 

Mycroft picked up a gold letter opener and began to fidget with it. “Remember when I told you that Sherlock has met someone that he is trying to…impress?”

 

John nodded once, like a soldier.

 

“Well, it would seem that his desire to woo this person has resulted in a new wave of reality distortions that are playing havoc with the time stream that I am a part of. He is creating situations to amuse both himself and his _objet petit a_ in order to promote greater bonding and to, one day, forge a permanent relationship.”

 

John’s stomach heaved. _Not Sherlock. Nobody could have Sherlock. Sherlock was…_

_His._

 

The realization struck him like a blow to the gut. He doubled over, clutching his stomach.

 

“Doctor? Doctor Watson, are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”

 

“No!” John gritted out, tears squeezing between his eyelids. “No, I don’t need a bloody doctor, or anything else. I just need Sh…” He bit the word off, cursing himself for his weakness.

 

Mycroft held the letter opener balanced between his two index fingers and marveled, “It all becomes clear, doesn’t it, Doctor? The lonely reality-shifter, the desirable someone, the tantalizing situations presented as a gift…tell me, Doctor, is it really so hard to understand?”

 

John was still bent over, trying to compose himself, when Mycroft’s words drifted into his consciousness.

 

_The desirable someone, the tantalizing situations…_

 

_Me._

 

_It couldn’t be me._

 

_Sherlock is brilliant. He’s beautiful. He’s caring. He’s…_

 

_Courting someone._

_Me?_

 

“A second epiphany. Ah, we are just an overflowing well today, aren’t we?” Mycroft observed, his tone unctuous. He leaned forward aggressively, wielding the letter opener like a pointer. “Of course it’s you, you incredible nincompoop. Who else does he go out of his way to impress? Who else’s company does he tolerate as well as yours, although I must say his tolerance for idiots reached a new high.” He fell back into his chair with an air of disbelief. “Why my brother even bothers with goldfish like you is beyond me,” he said, wearily.

 

John’s blood began to boil. He sat upright in his chair and sniffed angrily.

 

“Fuck you, Mycroft. Fuck you and your goldfish and your ‘better than thou’ attitude and everything else except for one thing. Sherlock. Tell me what he’s in danger from and how to save him.”

 

Mycroft sat stiff-backed in his chair and gazed down his long patrician nose at John. His expression was inscrutable. Then he pointed the letter opener back at John.

 

“You.”

 

“What?”

 

“You are the danger, and you are the answer.”

 

John was nonplussed. “I thought you said I had to save Sherlock from himself, so how can I be the danger?”

 

Exaggerated eye roll. “How you can be capable of both acute epiphanies and half-arsed conclusions is beyond me.”

 

John snorted. “Spare me your half-hearted pity. HOW DO I SAVE SHERLOCK?”

 

One eyebrow raised. “Confess.”

 

“What?”

 

“Are you actually capable of saying anything else in response besides ‘what’?”

 

John shot out of his seat and grabbed the arms of Mycroft’s chair, face to face. Mycroft actually flinched slightly. “You will tell me what I need to do or, so help me, I’ll make sure that this reality’s going to be continuing without you.”

 

Mycroft found himself flattened against the headrest, John’s nose barely an inch in front of his own.

 

John smiled. It wasn’t a very pleasant-looking smile, and Mycroft recognized it for what it was.

 

“Time to clear the air, Mycroft. Without the insults this time, yeah?” John murmured before backing away and seating himself in the smaller chair again.

 

Mycroft repositioned himself in his chair and rearranged his jacket lapels as he recovered his composure.

“That was…unnecessary, John.”

 

John smiled again but said nothing. He canted his head as he waited for Mycroft to speak.

 

After taking a deep breath, Mycroft continued, “Sherlock has been in love with you for quite some time now, John. Whether or not this feeling might be mutual has been somewhat less clear. You have made some display of dating women, which has led my brother to believe that you are either heterosexual or bisexual, which leads us to the current situation.”

 

“Sherlock is well aware of your attraction to dangerous people and situations. Whether he could win your heart was questionable, but your loyalty and friendship were certainly attainable. In this way, he could keep you by his side, even if you were not interested in liaisons of the romantic or sexual kind.” Mycroft’s lip curled slightly before he resumed, “He could offer you what no one else could—danger and excitement. This, he has done. The problem is that he is now in a vicious cycle. He must continue offering you new, better, more dangerous adventures in order to keep you interested. Or, so he thinks.”

 

John was agape. “He doesn’t need to do that! I mean, he’s a bloody genius, can’t he figure that out?”

 

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to snort. “You have forgotten the missing piece of the puzzle, Doctor. What is he missing?”

 

John didn’t even hesitate. “Love.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “Correct. Or, more accurately, the assurance of love. He doesn’t know if you will stay with him without it, hence all the hubbub he has been creating. And, as he creates better and more dangerous fantasies to live out, his own chance of falling prey to them increases. In other words, Doctor, he is digging the tiger trap that he will, one day, fall into himself. All for the love of one ex-Army doctor who daren’t speak its name.” He watched John’s face as the significance of his words sank in.

 

“Sherlock is putting himself in danger over me,” John murmured.

 

Mycroft nodded. “Basically, but the problem isn’t merely you. Sherlock is setting up ever more elaborate stories that are beginning to alter the larger fabric of reality. With my little gift, I can detect changes in the time stream, and his work has been pulling at the threads that stitch the three-dimensional world together.  I shudder to think what would happen if enough significant changes are made…the fabric might rip apart, creating havoc and disasters that even my brother couldn’t repair. It almost happened once, in Seattle, Oregon. Young man named Orr had the same ability as my brother and his psychiatrist tried to usurp it. Almost unraveled reality in that section of the world permanently before the boy took control of it again. Ever since then, no one has tried to take the control away from the wielder, because that way lies madness. Literally. The psychiatrist saw the actual reality Orr had repaired and it broke his mind completely.”

 

“Shit,” John whispered.

 

“It was all kept very hush-hush in the intelligence community,” Mycroft went on, gravely. “Scary stuff. We’re always on the lookout for other shifters like Sherlock and me. They have to take control of their gift and use it properly, not in a game to secure a partner.”

 

“So, what can I do?”

 

Mycroft gave him a pointed look. “As I said, confess. Tell Sherlock how you feel about him. God only knows how he can’t read it all over you, but you seem to be his blind spot. He’ll do anything for you, and almost has. Imaging having someone who loves you so much that they would rewrite history for you—literally. You might consider someone like that to be a ‘keeper’, wouldn’t you, John?”  His voice was strangely kind.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess there’s no reason to pretend anymore, is there?”

 

“No reason whatsoever. Tell me, just out of curiosity, why have you waited so long?”

 

John dropped his head for a moment, then said, “Fear, I guess. I couldn’t imagine someone like Sherlock wanting someone like me. I’m…well, I’m nothing special.”

 

Mycroft smiled softly. “My brother would seem to disagree with that premise. He finds you to be quite fascinating. So, why don’t you head off and make things right between you, hmmm?”

 

“That’s a great idea, Mycroft…”

 

“Have you been talking with my half-arsed brother again, John?” Sherlock yelled. “I thought I had…”

 

John jumped up from his chair and yelled back, “You thought you had written that meeting out of reality, didn’t you? Well, it didn’t work, Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock looked stricken. His face became paler than its usual pallor and he stumbled backward a step.

 

“John…”

 

John held up a hand. “Don’t. Just, don’t, Sherlock. I know. I know what you can do, what you _have_ been doing…”

 

Sherlock dropped down into his chair, nervelessly. His eyes were fixed on John’s face, wide and fearful. “John, please…listen…”

 

“I did listen, Sherlock. I listened to everything you told me and found out that most of it was a lie. I listened to Mycroft and found out that you’ve been pulling reality out from under me since we met. I _know_ , Sherlock, I _know_ what you’ve been trying to do to me, you hear? And it’s got to end. Right here, right now,” he shouted, one vein popping out of his forehead in anger.

 

Frozen in place, Sherlock listened. The only movement John could detect was the trickling of tears in fine rivulets down those splendid cheekbones. His expression was one of pure devastation.

 

In two surprisingly long strides, he was kneeling in front of Sherlock, between his knees, peering up into overflowing silver eyes. Sherlock didn’t move. He just sat there, returning John’s gaze.

 

“Sherlock,” John said, softly, “It’s got to stop. Now. Stop putting yourself in danger. Stop creating danger where none exists just to keep me coming back. Please.”

 

Sherlock’s lips trembled as he spoke. “You’ll leave.” His voice wobbled with emotion. John’s heart hurt to hear it.

 

John edged in some more. “No, I won’t. I want to be here.” He leaning in until his face was only inches from Sherlock’s. “I want to be here with _you_.”

 

Blink, blink, blinkblinkblink…

 

A tiny, tremulous voice said, “You do?”

 

 John couldn’t believe it was the same booming baritone he had heard just the other day. He laughed.

 

“Yeah, I do. I really do. You don’t have to provide non-stop adventures and danger and thrills to keep me. You had me at “Afganistan or Iraq”, did you know that?”

 

Dark curls bobbed as Sherlock shook his head ‘no’.  John smiled gently.

 

“Well, you did. And after the cabbie case, I would have followed you anywhere.  I still will, because I want to be with you, like, forever.”

 

Full, dusky lips mimed, ‘Forever?’ as a new wave of tears rolled down his face.

 

John leaned all the way in. “Yeah. Forever. Because I love you, you beautiful madman,” he whispered, as he placed his slightly-dry lips on Sherlock’s tear-moistened ones in a tentative kiss.  “’Kay?”

 

More bouncing curls. “Yeah,” he snuffled, his glorious silver eyes meeting John’s deep ocean blue ones. “I guess this means I don’t have to create a villainous mastermind for you now?”

 

“Yeah,” John chuckled as he claimed Sherlock’s lips again, this time with real passion and conviction.

_Mine_.

 

>>>***<<<

 

The next morning, John stretched out his arms only to find his left one immobilized. He looked down to see a touseled head of curls comfortably tucked under his shoulder and an arm artistically draped across his chest. He smiled. It had been a good night, with long talks, promises made, kisses exchanged, and, at long last, love made in Sherlock’s king-sized bed.

 

John kissed the warm, scented hair and received a sleepy mumble in return. His eyes scanned the room in the diffused morning light to see everything as it should be. All the right things in all the right places. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Sherlock snugged in closer and sighed.

 

A cell phone buzzed from the bedside table closest to John. He reached over, careful not to disturb Sherlock, and picked up his phone. His red phone. His brand new, top-of-the-line, red phone.

 

His old phone had been blue.

 

_Oh, shit._

 >>>***<<<

 

At the Diogenes Club, Mycroft facepalmed.

 

 

 


End file.
